Screenwriter Diablo Cody made a big splash with the clever Juno, and showed real growth with the acid Young Adult. But that was a while ago. Now she has penned this trite stinker, in the mold of so many dramadies about the travails of rich families as they negotiate the perilous path of monied suburbia. In this case, the major disturbance comes in the form of Ricki, a talentless front woman for a cover band come home to her estranged family to chew with her mouth open and say dirty words. But hey, it’s Meryl Streep, so we’re okay, right? Right?
No. Streep is just terrible, whether slumming as the hip cast-off or leading the worst cover band ever. She’s inauthentically grungy and gratuitously down-to-earth and when she visits her family, led by the kind ex-husband (Kevin Kline) she left years ago, it is cringe-inducing, not because of the fish-out-of-water stuff (this is the kind of movie where the denizens of the tony enclave practically say, “Well, I never!”), but because there’s not a word of it that isn’t hackneyed or overdone. Kline has remarried a protective earth mother type who raised the abandoned children while Ricki honed her craft covering Tom Petty. She abandoned a a nice son about to get married to the most stuck-up bitch imaginable; a fragile daughter who has had a breakdown because her marriage of three seconds failed (you’d think she’d been a captive of Boko Haram, so extreme is her distress); and a son straight out of gay central casting (he is furious because Rikki called his gayness a phase and voted for W . . . twice!)
All of which would be humdrum but bearable twaddle save for the fact that Ricki and her shit band play about 7 numbers in this picture, including a version of Wooly Boolie so bad we could have won the war on terror years ago had it been utilized at Guantanamo and Springsteen’s My Love Will Not Let You Down, which starts more like a Quarterflash tune and ends with your head in a bucket.
After August: Osage County and this, I am not saying Streep is at that Pacino point, where she thinks she can just fart in a bottle and call it potpourri. But she’s on notice.
Rick Springfield, who plays the lead guitarist for the Flash and Ricki’s love interest, deserved better.